Tug
by TTAvatarfan
Summary: Sam's grief for Frodo after he travels across the sea is not so different than Frodo's grief for Sam. Even apart as they are, they are still desperate to comfort and be comforted by one another.


The evening Sam returned to Bag End after Frodo's departure to the Grey Havens, he locked the door to his master's room and didn't acknowledge its existence again for a whole year. He was terribly afraid to look inside of it again. Why, he wondered? What was in that room that he feared? It wasn't anything he could touch, that much was certain. That made it all the more frightening.

But, it was a year to the day. _A year_. Was that the reason why Sam felt something pulling him towards his master's room? The reason he blindly placed his hand on the knob, turned it, and glided, as if sleepwalking, over the threshold? Yes. There was a soft tug at his heart, guiding him like a child that has been lost and cold for far too long toward someplace warm and comfortable.

As he scanned the room, he knew everything would be exactly as it had been left. There were still ashes in the fireplace, the chair still pushed halfway away from his master's desk from when he had stood up from it on his last day in the Shire, and still dents in the comforter of the bed from where Frodo had patted it flat that morning. The very air was the same as it had been that day, the windows having remained shut as well.

It was so _normal_ in its presentation. Sam felt the tug in his heart begin to yawn into the feeling he always received whenever he got close to Frodo's room. Something that made his chest feel empty and pumped tiny glass shards sluggishly through his veins. But today, he didn't have the will to swallow it down and pretend he had never grieved over anyone in his life.

Slowly, he made his way towards Frodo's bed, gazing at the little dents in the comforter, before pausing, afraid he was sullying something sacred. Then, after a moment, he traced them reverently with his fingertips. As his eyes swept over the bed, coming to rest on Frodo's pillow, he even saw that there was a dent the size of his master's head left in the center.

Something squeezed his heart then, as if it were trying to halt its beating, and the torrent of glass in his veins tore at the scabbed over wounds until they were raw and bloodied again. Tears pricked behind his tightly closed eyelids as painfully as memories began prick at his consciousness.

_A clean morning full of fresh sunshine that merrily lit the room as soon as the curtains were tossed aside. _

"_Alright Mr. Frodo, the start of another productive day!_ _Bright and early, that's the only way to start such days, so they say!"_

_A grumble of disagreement from the bed as his master's dark head disappeared beneath the blankets, followed by a muffled, "I'll hang the man by a gibbet that got such an idea into his head."_

_Sam laughed. "Ah, but Mr. Frodo, that would be me. And begging your pardon sir, but there's no rope in Bag end long enough for making gibbets."_

_A pillow hitting him soundly in the face. _

"_You're right, Sam, it will be a productive day," his master growled good naturedly, "I'll be spending it tying together my bed sheets and finding the tallest tree in the farthing."_

Sam's hand clenched spasmodically on the pillow, as he now wept openly and the grief bled steadily into his chest.

"_In you come, sweetheart."_

_A drowsy invitation but an invitation nonetheless, and the small, frightened child needed no further encouragement before he leapt into the bed and pressed himself as tightly as he could against his master's body. Little Sam shivered and buried his face in Frodo's chest, finally allowing the tears to fall while he felt Frodo put his arms about his shaking body. _

"_Bad dream, Sam?" Frodo yawned, setting his chin atop Sam's head. The little head nodded once, and a fresh wave of sobs fell over him._

"_You were standing on a shore, Mr. Frodo," Sam explained in a watery voice, "and there were seagulls calling over your head, so it had to have been the shore to the sea. You started to walk into the water, but I grabbed your hand and tried to pull you back. I felt like something wasn't right, and it scared me and I didn't want anything to happen to you!"_

_When he paused to choke on a few sobs, Frodo rubbed his back encouragingly and pulled Sam a little closer to him. Sam snuggled closer into his warmth, clinging to the front of Frodo's nightshirt for all he was worth before continuing._

"_But pulled your hand away, shook your head at me and told me you loved me very much but that I had to stay here. At least I think so, because they were words I had never heard before, but for some reason I knew what they meant in the dream. And you started walking towards a little gray boat with a lantern and a bell on it, and I tried to stop you! I tried so hard but the sand was holding my feet down and all I could do was call and call for you but…but-!"_

"_Shhh…" Frodo soothed, and Sam shuddered in his protective embrace. "I'm not going anywhere, Sam. At least, nowhere where I'd have to leave you behind."_

_Sam sniffed, and took in a deep draught of his master's comforting scent. "Promise? You promise me Mr. Frodo? That you'll never go where I can't follow you?" _

_Frodo laid a soft kiss in Sam's curls and whispered, "I promise."_

Tears pattered onto the comforter and Sam found himself pulling it and the rest of the sheets on the bed back, before getting in and pulling the blankets up over his shoulders.

He had promised! Frodo had promised he would go anywhere without his Sam, and now Sam felt lost and the place Frodo had occupied in his heart was so _empty_ that it hurt. It _hurt! _He had been hurting ever since his master left, no matter what story he had tried to feed himself that his master was in a place where nothing could hurt him or make him sad ever again. This was true, certainly and Sam's head knew that it was true, but his heart just wasn't into it. It wasn't just that he missed his master to the point of physical pain, but he was worried about him to that point as well. What if he had nights like this, nights where he found himself alone and frightened to the point where it became too much and he felt like crying? Who would comfort him? Who would hold him in the just the right way (head tucked under a chin with a hand rubbing up and down his back) and say just the right words ("You're not alone, me love, I've got you) to make all the loneliness vanish?

"_Sam, I…oh it hurts! Oh please, make it stop!"_

_He bucks against Sam's gentle hold in the throes of his pain, but Sam knows it's just one of the anniversaries, the anniversary of his master's stabbing on Weathertop if the icy chill of his left arm and the death grip Frodo has on his shoulder are anything to go by. But Sam just pulls him down to the bed and holds him tight, squeezing away the cold as best he can and placing his chin atop his master's head._

"_Shhh, easy sweetheart," he whispers, "Nice and easy. You're not alone. Your Sam's got you, and he loves you far deeper than any dark sword can go."_

_Frodo shudders and moans wretchedly and deeply, breaking out into an icy sweat. _

"_I want to die," he whispers hoarsely, a far away quality to his voice, "Please, just kill me and end it. I can't…I can't…"_

_Sam presses a desperate, affectionate kiss in Frodo's curls and squeezes his master's body until he can't breathe. And he knows Frodo is thankful for it._

"Mr. Frodo…you promised me…" Sam whimpered, pulling the blankets around himself tighter and curling into a miserable knot, trying desperately to wrap himself in what was left of Frodo. His need for his master's presence was suddenly so all consuming that he was unable to think of anything else. Sam needed at that very moment to see him alive and happy, to hold him and feel his body warm and close, to hear his voice, his heart beating and feel soothed and protected and experience the old naïve feeling of when he was a child held in Mr. Frodo's arms that nothing would ever go wrong in the world again.

And the knowledge that all of those things were lost to him forever…

Before he could stop himself, Sam pressed his face into Frodo's pillow and wrapped his arms around it, needing to hold _something_. Then, he pulled in a deep draught, searching hard for his master's scent, anything, even the tiniest hint that his Frodo had occupied this bed at any point in his life…

_There!_

The smell of clean sunshine on a morning full of banter, the heady musk of sleep and nightmares chased away swiftly, and the salt of tears and warmth of love, loyalty, and friendship too deep to do anything but hurt and hurt when it was broken by the sea. Sam held the pillow tight and fast to his heart, unconsciously tucking it under his chin and crying all the harder for the fact that there would be no Frodo this time, or ever again, to tell him that this was all just a bad dream.

When Sam woke the next morning, apparently having cried himself to sleep the night before, it was to the gentle light of the sun and the soft fluttering of silk against his cheek. Refusing to let go of the pillow, he sat up slowly and rubbed away the tears sticking his eyelids together. Once his vision was clear enough, his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the sight of what lay on the bed next to him.

A golden elanor flower. And with it was carried the sorrowful scent of clean sunshine, comfortable sleep, and love sweet and steadfast and deep.

Sam reached out a shaking hand and stroked a petal, and a he heard his master's voice reverberating in the air, caressing his soul and patting his torn heart back together. Once the words ceased, Sam's shoulders began to tremble, and he closed his hand gently around the blossom before weeping anew.

A warm breath on the breeze across the sea made Frodo's ears prick sometime in the night, and the rest of his body soon followed suit to sleepy awareness. He sat up slowly in his down feather bed, swaying and rubbing his eyes with one hand, swearing he had just heard a voice speak his name in the most forlorn tone he had ever heard. Had he just been having a very vivid dream?

No, there it was. His name was being reverberated in the air, echoing from a place that seemed infinitely too far away. Frodo strained his ears to hear more. He was suddenly terribly afraid that he wouldn't hear the voice again.

"Frodo…romised…not alone…ot going an'where…"

Frodo's eyes widened. He felt he should know that voice, but it sounded so muffled that he wasn't sure. He tossed aside his blankets and ran to his open window, craning his head to peer outside. The words were traveling into his room from outside. He danced from foot to foot restlessly, his eyes scanning the white sands and beyond to the rolling black waters of the sea in search of the speaker. There was a silence in which there was no noise but the lapping of the waves as they touched the shore, and Frodo sighed in defeat.

"Mr. Frodo…"

Frodo nearly jumped to the ceiling. It had been so long since he had been called by that name, and the only one who did… With a new urgency, he raced out his door and onto the sand, kicking up plumes of it as he went. His heart was being tugged in a way he didn't understand and in a direction he wasn't sure of, but suddenly he was sure that if he didn't follow, it would mean the end of everything.

"Mr. Frodo…easy sweetheart…easy…I've got you…"

"Sam," Frodo whispered as he ran across the beach, blood pounding in his ears, "Sam!"

He didn't even hesitate when he reached the meeting of sea and shore, and plunged into the surf. Frodo stopped when the water reached his knees, as if he had reached a wall only he could see.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam's voice whimpered pitifully. The sound smote Frodo so that tears stung his eyes in earnest. "You promised!"

Warmth filled with desperate affection suddenly wrapped around Frodo's shoulders, as if he were being embraced by a ghost on the breeze. No, Frodo thought. It was Sam who was embracing him from across the sea, Sam who was whispering on the wind with a grief so profound that the pain he felt in it tore at him with as much ferocity as the wound on his shoulder. His voice was filled with such a heartfelt desire to know that his master was okay, to just _hold_ him again one last time…

Frodo wept earnestly now and wrapped his arms across chest, trying to hold Sam's warmth against him. He had to do something. He could just let Sam suffer, he had to answer him in some way, to let him know that he was alright but…oh, he wanted to see him and be squeezed tight in the way only Sam could. Yes, the elves here were wonderful and Bilbo was loving as always but suddenly, Frodo felt his soul flying high and fast to the Shire again, passing the Brandywine, skirting the treetops of Hobbiton and coming to rest at the doorstep of Bag End.

"Sam," Frodo whispered helplessly. He knew he couldn't do anything to ease his friend's pain from here, even as his hoping body took another step toward the Shire. Frodo trembled harshly now, so torn between the knowledge that he couldn't return and a desire to see his Sam again that he felt he would burst. He raised his to gaze at the moon, wondering if his friend of friends could gaze at the same moon that circled the sky of Tol Eressa. "I'm okay Sam. I know I promised I wouldn't leave you, I'm so sorry I broke that promise! I'm so sorry!"

"You're not alone Mr. Frodo, I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

The warmth around his shoulders suddenly blazed even warmer, and Frodo squeezed himself even tighter. "I know," he murmured, "I've got you too."

Something gold flashed at his feet, drawing Frodo's gazed downward. A golden elanor blossom was bobbing up and down in time with the gentle swells that circled his ankles. Blinking once, he scooped it up and cradled it gently in his palm. He stroked one of the petals delicately, before lifting his gaze to the distant horizon, blurred by the rain curtain. Perhaps Frodo couldn't cross that curtain, but maybe this little blossom, if it traveled in earnest…perhaps it could comfort Sam in his stead.

Frodo let his eyes slide shut as his kissed the petal he had been stroking. One of his tears dripped from his eyelashes to dampen the center of the flower, but it seemed to drink in his sorrow instead of folding under the weight of it.

"My dear Sam," Frodo murmured in Sindarin, "I'll see you again, whether it's in the Havens, or in the next world. I'll be waiting for you in either."

He blew on the petal gently, and the same breeze that had carried Sam's voice to him carried to him carried the blossom away, bearing his sorrow across the sea. Frodo watched it dance on the wind, dipping from side to side and even skirting the surface of the water a couple of times. His eyes didn't leave it until it passed through the rain curtain out of sight.


End file.
